


Summer Soldier

by solnyshka (littlesolnyshka)



Category: Captain America, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Real Person Fic - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, NSFW, PWP, Smut, winter soldier - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1820878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlesolnyshka/pseuds/solnyshka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian brings his work home with him, sometimes</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know if you like it! Also, I do take prompts, and I promise with practice I will get better at writing :)

Sebastian is fucking done. With everyone, with the day, with this whole month, he's done. With everything. 

He's been filming for twelve, eighteen hours a day for the last month, and he's exhausted. Every muscle in his body burns painfully, he's sick of eating nothing but shitty protein bars that taste like paper mâché, and six missed calls on his iPhone tells him he also missed a catchup with his friends from Rutgers because he had a night shoot. On set during the days the heat is oppressive, and now he's finished early for the day his hair is scraped back in a ponytail because the mask makes him sweat so much it pools on his hairline. He hates the sun almost as much as the heat and it hates him too, scorches him, turns his skin pink and then tanned, which then gets him into shit with the makeup department, who clicked their tongues at him and told him a Russian soldier should be pale, not tanned, like it's his fucking fault it's summer. He's done.

If someone doesn't come and get this fucking metal prosthetic off his arm soon, he decides, he's going to scream and cry like a toddler in front of everyone on set. 

He sulks instead. Even Chris looks over it today, and he's usually the only one with a game-face still intact at the end of a location shoot. Scarlett is long gone, even half the assistants have disappeared. He absently fiddles with the separate pieces on his arm, three all up plus his glove, shakes them, but they're secure. he feels a trickle of sweat inch down the inside of it, down his bicep, where it itches like mad in the crook of his arm. He scowls and rubs his eyes with his flesh hand. 

"You'll need a strong screwdriver," Chris remarks offhandedly as he watches Sebastian drag his hand along the metal. "And maybe an actual screwdriver too, not just the vodka". 

Sebastian has had enough. Fuck it, he has a screwdriver at home, and lots of vodka, and they've got several prosthetics. They won't miss this one before tomorrow. He's going home. 

He scrubs his face awkwardly with one hand, gets the rest of the makeup off, and pulls his sweatshirt over the arm. Sebastian feels a thread on his shirt catch on one of the knuckles and winces irritably. Before anyone can comment, he's long gone, in his car in the car park with the air-conditioner blasting arctic cold on his face and neck for ten minutes before he can be bothered putting the car into gear and driving home.

He gets inside and is instantly relieved that his girl had left the air-conditioning on when she left for work, anticipating the heat. He's twitchy, been manhandled too roughly for too many days in a row by stunt doubles and costars, and he's withdrawn into himself. She finds him sulking on their couch under the fan, sweat gleaming on his brow, still humid and hot outside despite it almost being sunset. He finishes his beer and puts it carefully on the little glass coffee table, notes the scratches along the edge from where he's continually put his shoes on it. 

He's in a foul mood, she notes, and- what is possibly more curious is that he still has the metal arm locked around his own. The mood and the arm are probably linked, she thinks to herself, and drops her bag on their kitchen table before leaning against the doorway. He looks up but doesn't smile. 

"Good day, then?" She keeps it light, knows pushing his buttons will just make his mood worse, doesn't really want to entertain the thought of him sleeping on the couch in a shit mood for two days. 

"Can we fuck?" he asks, looking up at her. 

She blinks. "Now?" 

"Yes. Now." 

She nods at him, trying not to show she's amused at the prospect of fucking him while he wears the costume. He stands up, the arm jangles in its setting, grinds against itself, and he advances on her, predatory, eyes dark blue. "So am I fucking my Seb, or their Winter Soldier?"

"Whatever." Oh, so it will be like that, then, she thinks. He reaches out with his good hand, pulls her towards him so he can kiss her. When she kisses back he sighs into her mouth and deepens it, and she walks him backwards across the lounge to the hall to their bedroom, toward the bed until the back his knees hit the side of the mattress. 

He lies down on the bed, struggles with his belt buckle, the dexterity of the metal hand poor compared to his own, but he gets his belt off and watches her undress, throws the belt in the vague direction of their floor, but when she takes her shirt off, slips her work shoes off, unzips her skirt- his face changes, and he sits up. 

"No, I'm sorry, I'm just tired, you don't have to-" 

She's already on the bed, crawled over him, thighs either side of his narrow hips, feeling the damp heat of his skin, feels along his throat and shoulders, the sensitive part of his neck just above his pulse that she can see if she tilts his head back with a hand clutched in his hair and he's about to come for her. Her fingers trace his strong collarbones, feel the stickiness of the lube they use as a barrier film to get the prosthesis onto him. 

Sebastian's cock is hard now, pressing against the fly of his jeans and it looks painful, straining against the stitches. When she leans down and glides her mouth over the denim, feeling the heat of his cock through the fabric, he flinches and almost curls in on himself, over her, splays his fingers around her shoulder and just holds her there as she unbuttons and slides down his jeans and swallows him down, slowly, the way he likes it, so he can feel every second of it. She realises he's got the metal hand on her shoulder, cold compared to the rest of the summer heat, cold and smooth and shiny with the roughness of the fabric on his palm. 

He makes more noise than any of her former boyfriends, whimpers and soft moans and broken words as she starts to move her mouth. When she feels her throat quiver, threatening to make her gag around the weight of him on the back of her tongue, he throws his head back and his hands- both flesh and metal- scramble at the pillow behind his head and the side of the bed. 

Before he can come down her throat, he pushes her away and rolls them both together, so he's on top. He fucks her harder today than before, not faster, just harder, rougher, his hipbones crashing into hers as he fucks her into their mattress, arms under her on the bed pulling her waist up to expose her breasts properly, hard enough to leave bruises on her pale skin, sends electric shocks of pleasure up her limbs. He leaves fingerprints, on the polished wood of the bed-head, on her breasts in little broken capillaries, the metal hand rasping against her skin. Even when they're fucking like this, he makes more noise than she does, she comes quietly- he feels it louder than he hears it, feels her pulse and contract and flutter against, around, his cock. The sound of him coming today is just the the sharp intake of breath as he teeters on the edge, his vision whiting out at the sides as he moans. He buries his face in her neck as he comes, his shoulders shaking, can feel his orgasm throb through him, wrenching his nerve endings. 

After, he doesn't make any motion to move, half supporting his own weight on his elbows and half slumped onto her. 

She cards her hand through his hair, damp strands escaping his little ponytail, realises he's stolen another one of her brightly coloured hair ties, and he doesn't move. Stays there, almost clinging onto her. 

"You in there, still?" She asks, shifting his torso so his full weight was on her, his elbow not scraping the sheets. "You okay?" 

He nods into her, stubble rasping the soft skin of her throat, but doesn't move. "You okay?" She repeats, stroking the line of his jaw, tracing the cartilage of his ear. "You don't have to be okay, but...I just wanna know."

He takes too much of Bucky on, went digging too deep for how he felt about his stepfathers illness amid Wikipedia articles bookmarked on his iPad about memory loss and PTSD and soldier recovery missions. This time around for the sequel it's more real and painful, too much hurt and pain and confusion. 

He looks up and in the bedside lamp light she can see his eyes are red and eyelashes are wet, heavy dark lines underneath his eyes- European genetics like her, smoking, shit sleep for weeks on end. She strokes his cheekbone, and his eyes flutter closed. "Sorry," he says, half-muffled by the pillow, "I'm just really tired."

"It's alright."  
"Not really." He wipes his eyes with his fingers impatiently, frustrated with himself.   
"It will be. Not long to go, now."  
"Three weeks."

He sighs, his eyes lidded, and he looks tired now but not irritable, just worn out. She looks him over, hard muscle, not much softness about him now compared to when they met. Sebastian's got bruises she's willing to bet would match Chris Evan's hands, a blotchy purple on across one hip where he missed a fall mat last week. The metal arm looks heavy, ungainly, and she can see the redness around his shoulder from where the metal has scuffed his skin.

She gets out of bed, pads over barefoot to their walk-in wardrobe, throws her blue satin gown on over herself. The sheets rustle on the bed from the bedroom as she shuffles through a box of random paperwork until she finds the tiny tool kit she bought to assemble a bunch of their furniture. 

Sebastian watches her, his eyes soft as she gently picks up his arm, and she was right- much heavier than normal, and probably even more so for him. She motions for him to wriggle over and he does, puts his arm across her lap as she unscrews the first, second, third pieces, then tugs the glove off his hand. His fingers are damp and pruned from the sweat and the red marks on his skin are angry welts. 

"I'll have to take it back to set tomorrow," he mumbled, flexing his arm and shaking the muscles and tendons out, "but it needs a wash." 

"I've put all the little pieces inside the glove," She wrinkles her nose at him, dropping the last bit to the floor gently with a thud.

By the time she puts the toolkit away, he's long asleep. Sebastian sleeps soundly when he can, always has, sleeps sprawled out, diagonally across the King size bed if she's not there, boxer briefs low on his hips. 

Tonight, he's got pale red lines where the prosthetic has cut into him, calluses on his hands from all the fighting. His knuckles are red raw, his hair smells like her shampoo and heat and cigarette smoke, but it's fluffy, soft beneath her fingers, fine and easily tangled.

His girl ignores the fact his metabolism makes him a furnace in bed, even in summer, and throws the sheet over them both. 

Three more weeks.


End file.
